


A Certain Kind of Necessity

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940s AU. Dean, a simple tailor, finds himself in service to the Don of the Sant'Angelo crime family. Because money is tight, Dean provides a little something extra to make ends meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Kind of Necessity

  
“The Don needs a new suit jacket,” Gabriel said, pushing Dean forward. “Make it snappy.”

Dean shot a glare over his shoulder at the smaller brother, obviously not caring for the rough treatment. Over the course of these last few months, Dean had grown to dislike him a great deal. Everything about Gabriel made Dean want to punch his lights out. The way he was quicker at drawing his gun than he was at asking questions. His temper. His goddamn obnoxious chewing. The other brother, Balthazar, wasn’t much better. In fact, most of the Sant’Angelo crime family’s members could burn in Hell for all he cared. They were all murderous pigs, vying for power in the city of New York. All of them lowly criminals. Straight down to the core of the family.

They called him the Don, the merciful angel among them, God’s greatest gift to mankind—whatever the fuck. Despite his charitable façade, good deeds done the wrong way, Castiel Sant’Angelo was still a goddamn murderer through and through. In this day and age, when cash was tight, Dean Winchester, a simple tailor, couldn’t pick and choose his clients. Money was money. And there was always a way of earning a little bit more of it.

Without further encouragement from Gabriel, Dean strode into the dressing room with ease. Castiel stood tall in the middle of the room, surrounded by mirrors, with Balthazar taking up a protective watch against one wall. The older, sandy-haired brother flashed him a charming smile while the other, Gabriel, nearly pushed Dean aside on the way by. Dean had to keep his own temper in check. Any false move would send these bastards into a killing frenzy.

Dean went about his business and moved with surety. Being the Don’s “preferred tailor” had its disadvantages. As he stepped closer, Dean could already see it. The jacket was soiled with blood, brain meat from some poor sap that hadn’t quite agreed to the Don’s demands. Bits and pieces of bone and gore flecked the once-perfect black jacket. He remembered that jacket, the hours he had poured into it, making it perfect. If he had the balls, if he felt cocky enough to gamble with his life, he’d tell Castiel to fuck off and be done with it.

Dean chose the higher, safer ground and silently peeled the jacket off his thin shoulders. There was no way in hell he’d let this go easily, passing off a subdued glare in the Don’s direction. Castiel followed him with those piercing, soul-drinking blue eyes as Dean walked away to hang the jacket up. That son of a bitch always had that goddamn smug smile on his face. Their secret, the fact that Dean was no better than a whore, played off every bit of that smile. It made Dean sick. Because he had to, Dean forced all of that out of his mind and went about his work.

It was too bad Dean couldn’t concentrate.

Here, standing this close to him, Dean was constantly reminded of his “extra duties”. The shit he’d do just to be able to put food in his mouth. Worse yet, it was bullshit that he came to like. It didn’t matter if he was straighter than a goddamn arrow. Just the touch alone, feeling that _connection_ with someone—no, fuck it. It was survival. In a dog-eat-dog city, where normal everyday life was a struggle, Dean had to do what he had to do. Still, somewhere deep inside, his loneliness yearned for… _anything_. Even just a small bit of comfort to help him through those cold, dark nights.

That yearning, that need, punched him in the gut as he inched closer, about to take measurements. Coming in contact with Castiel’s warmth, just beneath his fingertips, sparked images of when they were last together. With a hard swallow, Dean brought the measuring tape even with the strong line of the Don’s shoulders. Castiel tensed immediately, drawing his body rigid. The movement betrayed the muscles beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt, hinting at subtle strength. Castiel was lithe, fragile and possessed a timeless grace that almost seemed… other-worldly. As a straight man, sure, Dean could appreciate his physique; the long lines, his perfectly-coifed hair, the way he always seemed so put together. It was admiration and the only reason he wanted to be so close to him.

Wasn’t it?

Just then, as if responding to the excessive closeness, Castiel slowly turned to send a glance over his shoulder. It said everything in its simplicity. It spoke of the brief history between them, the mutual resentment burning in their blood, the challenge—the underlying _lust_. Beneath that stare, Dean doubted the certainty of his own sexuality. Castiel was _that_ goddamn powerful, that fucking persuasive. Hell, he’d even begin to doubt his own name. The intensity, the _need_ Dean saw in that gaze. It spoke of a bright burning desire that no doubt coursed in Castiel’s veins; the same feeling that began to thunder through Dean and leave him short of breath.

Dean hardened up and flashed him a deep frown, an expression that announced his feeble defiance. His own movements became sharp, quick and rough, measuring and writing down numbers hurriedly just so he could escape. Being this close to him was agony, a temptation he didn’t need, and left him fighting between what he wanted—to leave and disappear—and what he needed; to be fucked into submission.

The silent battle of wills continued. Castiel stared at him, never once looking away as Dean continued his work. Dean knew he would lose this game, find himself begging for it on his knees. By avoiding his eyes altogether, Dean knew he had already lost, knew that they’d soon be fucking here on the floor. Dean clenched his jaw in quiet refusal and met his gaze straight on, daring him to make a move. Two could play at this game, Dean concluded.

Castiel responded to the dare with another one of those cocky half-smiles. Dean seethed, but didn’t translate the anger into the way he handled him. Instead, the brush of his fingers at Castiel’s neck was light and teasing, working slowly to straighten the collar of his dress shirt. Dean moved on to the top button, making sure that every touch counted, that his fingers took the long way to graze every inch of flesh he could muster. By the time Dean took up the measuring tape again, looping it around his ribs, Castiel had stopped breathing. Dean could tell that he was fighting to keep some semblance of self-control. For a man so powerful to be affected by a simple tailor—Dean shot a smug smile right back at him.

When Castiel narrowed his eyes dangerously, Dean knew that time was running out, that the Don’s patience was wearing thin. Castiel grew agitated, brows knit together in a frown, and shot a quick glance to his brothers, Balthazar and Gabriel. Dean followed his gaze. Gabriel was chewing on a toothpick, staring at Dean, looking as if he was ready to kill him any second. Balthazar, on the other hand, continued to be oblivious to the world, mesmerized by his own face in the mirror. Dean smirked. Balthazar had always been such a pompous bastard, too caught up in himself to give a damn about anything else.

At length, Dean returned back to his measuring, tossing a wink Castiel’s way. That in of itself made an almost inaudible groan pass through the Don’s lips. Dean smirked, embracing the surge of triumph in his gut. He could feel Castiel’s hard breath along his neck, hot and needy. It spelled out his desire and fanned the flame burning deep in Dean’s core. Goddamnit. He was falling prey to his own game. The give and take between them, the teasing—Dean shuddered beneath it, suddenly intoxicated by everything that embodied Castiel; his smell, his warmth, the allure of his _power_. The fact that he was so fucking dangerous. It was his lethality that would have him willingly on his knees, ready to suck whatever Castiel put in his mouth. Dean wanted to drink him like a fine wine, drown himself in everything that made him _him_. And Dean almost hated himself for it.

His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The images of the last visit circled inside his head, making his usually-adept fingers fumble. Another sharp inhale from Castiel, the slow lick of his lips. Dean ignored his own half-hard cock, trying to concentrate on the numbers and his job. He slipped the measuring tape lower to circle it around his waist. The memory of those fucking hipbones caused Dean to let loose a quiet whimper. The soft angles, the noises Castiel made when Dean licked them.

When Dean lost his breath, Castiel eased out another smile. Except this one was different. It wasn’t smug at all. It was the kind of daring, teasing smile that said _fuck me now_. It left Dean unhinged, aching and wet for sex. By the time Dean had the mind to continue his work, his cock was fully hard, pressing against the soft layer of his suit pants. This whole thing was just… so fucking unfair. Dean decided to fight dirty.

The vertical measurement from shoulder to knuckle-level was used to determine the length of the jacket. Dean used it instead as a front to brush the back of his hand against Castiel’s cock, just to fucking tease him. With it, Dean discovered that he wasn’t the only one overcome with his wants. Castiel was as hard as a rock, the heat of his cock radiating with the power of a thousand suns. Castiel jolted in response, growling low in his throat. Gingerly, for no other reason than to be an asshole, Dean sent the brush of a finger along the stiff line in Castiel’s slacks.

“Leave,” Castiel shot out suddenly, voice nearly cracking.

With a frown and the roll of eyes, the brothers left them alone in the room. That was when everything changed.

Dean threw the measuring tape aside and grabbed Castiel’s cock, kneading it between his fingers. In a rush of heated lust, their mouths crashed together, tongues exploring and teeth nipping at lips. Castiel groaned and Dean swallowed it down, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Dean could have spent a millennia here, just kissing him, overcome by Castiel’s heat and passion. The thrill of it sent an unchaste stab of excitement through his stomach, down to his cock. Although they both came from different worlds, here, in each other’s arms, they were the same. Desperate men fighting in a battle of wills for their small piece of Heaven.

Dean fought his way into Castiel’s fine suit pants, shoving a hand down the front as soon as Castiel had unfastened them. His bare skin was hot to the touch, cock hard and wet for him. Castiel spent a heavy groan against his forehead, inching down and fumbling to kiss his lips. The kiss was rough and hungry, mouth pressed hard against his own. The intensity of his kiss, the way he seemed to need it _so badly_ —Dean wondered how long Castiel had gone without an intimacy that transcended the heartlessness of his world. Beyond greed, murder and challenged the acceptable societal ideal of their time. Dean caught himself wondering too if Castiel was a monster at all, if he was in fact… _human_.

Or just an animal with an insatiable hunger.

Castiel growled and sucked at his lower lip, portraying that carnal appetite by impatiently grabbing at Dean’s hips. Without much effort, Dean was turned around and half-thrown down onto the floor. Dean caught himself on the bench just in time, bent over it with his ass up for claiming. A struggle for dominance ensued. Dean wanted to fuck Castiel, split him wide with his cock and _take_ what shouldn’t rightfully be his. A simple tailor marking one of the most powerful men in the city, making him scream—fuck. The thought alone almost made Dean come.

It didn’t work out in his favor. Castiel proved to be too quick, too strong, winning out with the sheer force of his determination. While the Don held him down against the bench, Dean heaved out laborious breaths. He was hungry for the inevitable and surrendered, wasting no time in unfastening his pants and pulling them down. Dean braced himself. The sound of Castiel spitting into his hand had been his only warning.

Nothing could have prepared him for that stretch. Dean bit his lip and grunted as Castiel shoved inside him, the force of his thrust bringing with it a dull pain that made him ache. There was an excitement in being taken like this; the pain, the pleasure along with it. Dean groaned. It was the pain that faded first, pleasure soothing all the places he could still feel the dull ache. Dean could feel every inch slide deep into his ass as Castiel continued to fuck him, making him claw at the bench in pure _bliss_. He wanted it harder, wanted nothing more than to _break_ beneath him.

With a deep groan, Dean held onto the bench and snapped his hips back over and over again in tandem with Castiel’s thrusts. Their bodies crashed together, the sound of bare skin slapping out a hurried, desperate rhythm. The heat they made together, the way their roughness intensified everything tenfold. It earned him deeper, less dignified groans from Castiel’s lips and Dean found a satisfying amount of control being fucked like he was. Castiel seemed to melt into it too, leaning forward to drape his body against the supportive line of his back. With Castiel so close, almost bleeding into the same space, Dean felt hot puffs of air at his neck and lips at his ear. The gentle nips had Dean that much closer to shooting off like a fucking geyser. The teasing, the excitement—indescribable.

Dean reached up and back to grip Castiel’s hair, pulling just enough to coax out a rich, deep moan against his ear. Dean’s reward was another nip of teeth, something that grew into lavished affection. Castiel drew the shell of his ear into his mouth and sucked on it, grazing it with teeth. Two jerks on his cock and that was all Dean needed.

With a loud moan, Dean let himself go, coming so hard, so fast, that it left him dizzy. Castiel followed suit, pushing Dean’s head down against the bench while slamming into him, once, twice, before finding his climax. Dean felt his sudden warmth, the wetness of his orgasm; evidence that Castiel was pleased. A telltale sign that Dean wouldn’t be murdered in cold blood like a filthy animal. If doing this meant living another day—

Castiel slipped free of him and stood up, leaving Dean behind to catch his breath. In the mirror, Dean could see the Don adjusting himself back inside his suit pants, straightening his vest and fiddling with his cufflinks. The tiniest smile found the corner of his lips. It was that smug, shit-eating smile that Dean fucking hated.

“I have an appointment at 10:00,” Castiel eased with a sidelong glance. “You have thirty minutes.”

If Castiel hadn’t been as powerful and as dangerous as he was, Dean would have found a way to get out of this fucked up situation a long time ago. But there was a certain kind of necessity to what he did and money was money.  
  



End file.
